The Wife And The Mistress
by concentric circles
Summary: A dark, precautionary tale about the ways in which deceit can come back to haunt you. When Lord Beckett's wife and his mistress meet, things turn very ugly very fast.
1. Dead Eyes

chapter one: dead eyes

With his pianist's fingers, Cutler Beckett did up his cravat. Behind him, on a rumpled bed, sat a pitiful, hollow scarecrow of a woman. She was silent, and her large-knuckled hands were clenched tightly on her lap. After another moment of this ragged silence, Beckett turned to face her, finishing the tying of his cravat with a flourish. He examined the woman before him.

A worn-down, colourless figure she was; with a tight, chinless jaw. Her irises were like discs of glass, devoid of all life. For all he knew, she could have been a weary, wiry doll, sat there with her back hunched. Her pale hair flopped, as if the idea of life were too much effort for it. There was nothing vivid or lively about her: she sat like a blank piece of paper.

"Miss Hawes," he said, in clipped tones. "A pleasure, as always." She raised her head to look at him, but said nothing. He was well used to it now. It was her way. Finally, Beckett pulled on his frock coat. He was fully dressed and ready to go—and he knew that Mercer would have his coach ready by now.

He glanced over the scene once more with those sharp, grey-green eyes. Audrey Hawes was much older than him, and had a swarthy neck balanced on her rick-a-bones body and tight, barely visible lips. As he prepared to leave, she stood up quickly, and walked stiffly towards him, blandly predatory. Against the door she gave him a crushing, crippling kiss that tasted cold as a grave, before opening the door and closing it deftly behind him.

It had all started so strangely: the newly-titled Lord Beckett had never thought he would find himself bedding a common woman, especially a miserable and quite, quite insane wretch like Audrey Hawes. Although she looked and moved like a ghost, he knew that she contained a perverse violence that unsettled even his unshakeable core, and it was quite a recent development that their business relations had crumbled into emotionless, aggressive sex.

Although his clerk, the divinely efficient Mr Mercer, took care of a lot of his business, he had found it necessary to delve into the labyrinth that was the dark side of London and sift through it, and the result had been Miss Hawes. Dead-eyed and still, she was the perfect assassin—not to mention (and even Beckett would admit) that she was _damn_ scary.

Walking out of the small bedsit at which she lived, down a set of outside steps and into a bustling London street, streaked with greyish sunlight, he took in a breath of the over-filled air. Smells bombarded him from every side. Something that would bother most about Miss Hawes' living space, a single room of her own, was the fact that it looked as if it were not inhabited at all. It contained nothing but a large, dull cupboard, an empty side-table and her narrow, narrow bed. It was perhaps not meticulously tidied, but it simply looked like nobody had been there for years. Miss Hawes did not seem to leave footprints in the dust as any ordinary person did.

Once he had adjusted his eyes from the gloom of Miss Hawes' bedsit to the faint light of the outside world, he strode to the end of the street and turned the corner to where Mercer leaned against a dark carriage, smoking some tobacco. The carriage was made out of a dark and rich wood, and its curtains were drawn. Mercer stood up and opened the door for Beckett, looking him up and down briefly—something Mercer always did.

"Thank you, Mr Mercer," Beckett said, daintily stepping into the carriage and sitting down. "Now, on to the horse show: my wife will be most disturbed if I miss it."

Although Mercer raised an eyebrow, he did not comment—he and Beckett had been associates for about two years now, and were very comfortable with each other's presence... nevertheless, there were some things not even worth commenting upon.

They arrived at the Baedeker Ring within twenty minutes, and were hurried through the gates by box-boys who immediately recognized the duo. And who did not? Cutler Beckett and his permanent shadow, Mr Mercer, were two stark figures amongst London high society; the Becketts were all a family of noble blood, and the men all seemed to come out dominant, intelligent and assertive and the women came out as sharp yet social beauties. This particular Beckett had recently received the title of Lord without having to wait for his father to die, as he was granted it for services to the British Empire as one of the high-fliers of the East India Training Company. This had made him very happy.

Quickly, he and Mercer hurried into a private stall where an array of the upper crust were seated. There was another larger stand filled with the middle and upper-middle class; and that was all. The working class were not permitted to a competition such as this, apart from to sweep the stables and lead the horses. Beckett spotted his lady wife immediately; she was leading a large, dapple-grey thoroughbred towards the show jumping ring.

Lady Beckett walked, when she was leading her horse, as she always did: her chin was tipped upwards at an almost ridiculous angle, and her jodhpur-clad legs took steady, straight-legged strides. Her shoulders were thrust back as if she were posing for a portrait, leaving a sharp curve in the small of her back. She always walked as if she were blowing across short-shorn grass on brisk, bright mornings; whether she was at a social function, in the streets or at home. She was a sportswoman, right down into her tempestuous bones.

One would think that most men strayed into adulterous affairs once they had tired of their wives, or if they found their wife unattractive: in Beckett's case, this was not true at all. His wife was beautiful, that was for certain, and everyone knew it: she was one of the most renowned beauties of London. Would Cutler Beckett take anything less? She had light brown hair that was always shiny, and an even, softly framed face. Yet it was all too easy to be taken by these features and her glittering eyes—she was haughty, with a voice perhaps half an octave lower than what you would expect from a slim, feminine-faced girl such as herself, and had a wild need to get her own way—especially when concerning her husband. Sometimes, he felt absolutely hounded by her.

She did well, and placed second out of fifteen in this particular round of jumps. As she foisted her thoroughbred onto a stable hand, he saw her shade her glorious, amber eyes with one hand and cast them over the stands he was sat at. He raised one hand in greeting: she pulled her riding hat off and began making her way towards them.

"Well _done_, Verity," Beckett said as she arrived in the stall and stood in front of him. Her hands were clasped on her slim hips and her chin, as usual, was pointed up towards the large canvas roof above them, her eyes rolled right down to glare at him. The day was brightening and many women were bringing out their fans—he could see a sheen of perspiration across his wife's proud forehead.

"You're late," she said, not caring who heard. Beckett sighed, as if she were an insolent child.

"You know I took lunch with my father today," Beckett said smoothly, his face betraying not one flicker of proof of this lie. "It just went on a little, that's all—we don't have much time to catch up." Verity Beckett regarded him a moment, her eyes squinting just a little under pale but luxurious eyelashes. Then, nodding haughtily, she murmured that she would see him after the show and turned to leave. She paused, and spoke over her shoulder:

"You were in the _Times_, by the way. For the peerage you were granted. You are the political cartoon of this week, too."

Everyone in the room watched her go. That was, perhaps, what had attracted Beckett to her in the first place: she was a head-turner, in every way. Everything she did, everything she said. It was from the way she looked right down to her attitude. Oh, when he had first seen the young Miss Verity Lovelace walking her sporting walk across the floor, he had known he had to have her.

Perhaps their courtship had been a little too hasty: they had married quickly, ruled by passion—but at this point, a year later, they hardly seemed to live in the same world.

Beckett fished a slightly dishevelled copy of the _Times_ from a casket in front of them and ruffled through the columns of blotchy print until he came to the small, scratchy ink scene drawn by the cartoonist known only by his pen-name of 'Dill'. Beckett supposed that an alias was necessary for a man that made puns so bad that he was very much deserving of a lynching.

This week's cartoon was as bad as expected: it showed a fork, with a crown upon its prongs, offering a small box to a spoon with a wig on. This, Beckett guessed, was meant to represent the silver-plated set of knives, forks and spoons given to him by King George at the ceremony in which he was given his title: an expensive gift that he would doubtless hand down to many generations, were he to ever have children.

The caption read: _Cutlery Beckett_.

"Mr Mercer," Beckett said, rubbing his temple as if a headache was quickly approaching the point of burst vessels in the brain, "I do not know in which county, country or continent anyone on this God-given _Earth_ could find this amusing."

Mercer merely lifted a corner of one lip in a slightly sneery smile.


	2. A Killing

chapter two: a killing

"And you are _certain_ that you were simply out with your father, are you?" Verity asked, dully, as the couple sat in the back of a carriage that was moving towards their London manor house. She was sliding the pins from her silky hair, letting it splay out from the horse-rider's French plait and rest across the shoulders of her sharply-cut riding jacket. Beckett sighed.

"Of course, my dear," he said, moving to rest a hand across hers—she moved her hand out of the way, smartly. He did not flinch at this: her did not want Verity having one of her Little Moments. He changed the subject quickly to something he knew would please her. "I have been considering for some time now the notion that we get ourselves a slave for our household," he said, leaning back in his seat. He reconsidered his words and added, "An African one, I mean."

Verity brightened considerably.

"Oh, yes!" she said, rolling her head back and giving her indolent little smile. "That would be wonderful—we could have a woman for me, a man to do the gardening—oh, and I would quite like a young negro child." Her mind seemed to have disappeared into a little daydream. "Queen Elizabeth had a little negro boy that followed her around, you know: he played a drum, I think."

"You are not Queen Elizabeth," Beckett sighed: Verity blinked, as if she had been under that illusion all along, and then rolled her eyes as if he were being very horrible and ruining a most enjoyable game. "Besides which, I wasn't thinking of starting a _collection_," Beckett continued with a little frown. "Slaves cost a lot of money, and it's not the initial price: it's the upkeep. Food, a place to stay..."

"As if you need to worry about money," Verity said with a roll of the eyes. The idea of the young negro child was fixed firmly in her mind, now.

"I do, rather," Beckett said, irritation rising in his voice, "Seeing as you seem intent to spend it all." Of course, spending _all_ of Lord Beckett's immense wealth would be a nigh impossible task: he was what was known as _old money_, the old money of London, he had wealth going back generations and generations, a stock of not only actual money but heirlooms and houses that seemed to never end.

"Oh, _must_ you always bicker?" Verity drawled, leaning her head back even further and rolling her radiant eyes straight up the ceiling of the carriage as it bumped and rolled. "It's supremely childish."

"It is more childish by _far_ to make the spoilt demands you always do," Beckett said, trying not to snap, even when alone with her. It had been a good day today, after all: it would not do to spoil it. The carriage drew to a halt. Verity began inspecting her nails as the door was pulled open by the footman: Mercer was off on a little task, as he often was once the light began to fade from the sky. Beckett stepped out of the carriage and offered a hand to his wife. She looked at his hand, looked away, and then took it—allowing him to aid her onto the cobblestone drive outside of his manor.

The Beckett household was tastefully done, in fact, he considered it a piece of art: it was not a bland, white, towering monstrosity as so many aristocrats had built for themselves to show off their wealth. Beckett had the sort of wealth that was self-evident. It oozed from anywhere he went and anything he did. His home was incredibly old, and it simply _sprawled_ across some extremely impressive grounds. And everything within was simply perfect.

Verity performed a deft little foxtrot on her way across the marble floor of their hallway, before collapsing into a chaise. Although she simply threw herself into any sort of position, her usual rumpled stylishness instantly snapped into place and she looked immaculate; every stray strand of hair, every loose fold of her dress looked as if it had been placed there purposely: she looked like a work of art, sculpted from stone.

It was times like these that Beckett knew why he had chosen this woman as his wife. She looked at him through her round, smug eyes as he walked towards her across the floor and stood, looking down at her. Slowly, she raised a hand, fingers curling towards his: after only a brief pause, he took her hand in his, and gave it a slight squeeze.

* * *

The dark, winding, fog-ridden alleys of London were like a second home to Mercer. He stalked them almost on a nightly basis: more spectral and eerie than any phantom, for Mercer had a solid and strong existence, the kind of existence that often ended up with other people greatly harmed. As was his job. He had become a familiar shadow, flitting through the writhing mass that was London's blackest belly, and anyone who knew much about the back streets feared him. Although originally raised in the choking beast that was Manchester, he was by now so familiar with London's backstreet network that he may as well have been born here.

Even the quiet clip-clopping of his shoes sounded loud in the oppressive silence of the night. Rowdy singing from a pub someplace nearby warped and wavered with the wind, and silhouettes of prostitutes—gathered in duos or trios—were visible through the coiling, rolling fog. He climbed a set of outside steps, coming to a miniscule balcony, and rapped on a flimsy, grimy door. There was no response.

Clasping his leather-gloved hands together for warmth, he stood still for a moment, listening—but there was no sound. He knocked once more, but he knew what Miss Hawes was like: if she were in, she would have answered by now.

Even the unshakeable, malicious and emotionless David Mercer felt shivers up his spine when he saw Miss Hawes. Most people did. There was something about her: as if she were a walking corpse, as if nobody had ever told her she was dead. But one glance at her made clear that she _knew_, she knew the way she was, she knew that she was dead and cold all the way to her core and wrapped it up and _relished_ it.

He had done twisted things in his time: his tasks had included torture, murder and horrors beyond belief. Lord Cutler Beckett's image was utterly squeaky-clean, but beneath it all it was as defiled and filthy as any pirate's... not that Mercer would dare say that to his master. Business was business, after all.

But none of the twisted things he had done had he ever, for one moment, _enjoyed_. Certainly, he could stomach it—yet Miss Hawes' eyes glowed with life only when Mercer was sent to give her one of Beckett's little tasks, when he spoke the name and address of some poor fellow who hadn't really done too much wrong, just had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, been on the wrong side, made the wrong friend or enemy...

As he clomped down the steps, deciding against knocking the door down, a window suddenly crashed open and a bearded man in a nightcap thrust his face out. He had barely any teeth, and spat horrendously when he spoke.

"Whasshah? What do you want?"

Mercer examined him calmly. "I was just wondering if Miss Hawes was in," he said, ink-dark eyes moving over the bad-tempered tenant's voice. At the threatening undercurrent in his cool voice, the tenant hesitated, seeming to regret his harsh words. He glanced up and down the empty street.

"Ain't in," he said needlessly. "She's 'ardly ever in."

"Do you know where she might be?" Mercer asked. The man shook his head, sending his nightcap bobbing. "About what time did she leave?"

"Dan't knaw," he said in his bland cockney snap. "Moves loik a ghost, that one."

Wordlessly, Mercer turned and walked away. After a few steps, he heard the window slamming closed. He sighed, very softly, causing an ephemeral speech bubble to roll from his tongue and fade into the air. He had a slight feeling that he knew where Miss Hawes was, and he did not wish to think upon it in too much detail. Rumour had it—some people said—it was _suggested_... that Miss Hawes' penchant for murder went beyond any businesslike frontier. That sometimes, she took it upon herself to, to go out and...

It hardly bared thinking about.

He could not go searching for her now: she had a task lined up in two nights time, and Mercer had simply been meaning to remind her... not that he felt he would need to, it was just a precautionary measure. Miss Hawes would never make such an idle mistake as _forgetting _something That would be too... human.

As the furtive shadow that was Mercer slipped away, the stiff form of Miss Hawes watched him go from a small, tucked-away alleyway on the opposite side of the road from her home. At the back of the alley, a body was huddled on the ground, mingling its blood with the dust, allowing small rivulets to creep between the cobbles. Her eyes were flat and cold. Her head suddenly jerked to the side, like a wild animal sensing danger. She walked out of the alley, pattered silently through the street and dissolved into the ever-present darkness.


End file.
